


Not a Death so Quiet

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cold War, Crime, F/M, Human AU, I know America/denmark was really random, M/M, OC Parents - Freeform, Poetry, Set in 1950s-60s America, Slow Burn, angsty, ballet dancer russia, musician america, not exactly, why do i always make myself write angsty love story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-01-18 18:30:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21281294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Hungarian Dance no. 5 by Brahms. Who would ever play it on a cello except for Alfred, the dunce managed to make the light song depressing as he drew the bow agonizingly slow across the E string, eyes closed in a silent prayer he murmured under his breath as the last note was played.-May our summers not dieNot a death so quietI can hear the cherubs cryAnd they told me to defy itIn being benevolent, I told them a lie“A match made in heaven will never be undone.”Not when the knots are tied.-Ivan Braginsky-
Relationships: America/Denmark (Hetalia), America/Russia (Hetalia), Austria/Hungary (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	1. PROLOGUE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> let's build a prologuguuguguugug

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of context:  
Ivan's father was a Finnish man and his mother a Russian woman, living on the border of the two countries thus when the Winter War broke out there was family conflict that heightened during the continuation war (wwII).  
I will find the specific locations in approximately two days from 5/11/19  
Honestly the beginning of this fic was supposed to be for Romano.
> 
> Ой стога, стога - by Alexey Tolstoy (1840)  
Excerpt:   
Pray, behold us, good sir:  
We were once bright flowers;  
But the sharp scythe falls  
And the whole field cowers

Ten pebbles tumbling to a halt at the foot of a steep knoll, that was how carefully he observed his surroundings with his piercing eyes. Their clicking halted too abruptly but the dust they picked up in their tracks flew away, hopefully out of Finland. Ivan pointed out quite literally to no one in particular at a forget-me-not bush that he just trampled over, “You are still beautiful, if not ruined.” The bush might recover to grow twice as strong or remain feeble for the rest of its cursory life. 

On a hill somewhere on the border of Finland and Russia lived a boy few people loved, yet who loved all he saw. They didn’t love him because his method of love was too different to theirs, and they couldn’t understand the poor boy, yet he never stopped his peculiar ways.

He liked the sound of his voice, so he spoke often to himself, unintended cruelness fighting against the well intended childish curiosity at what he just did. Ivan also likes to pluck out flowers from girl’s hair and tear them to shreds before giving the girls a new one stating confidently, “Darling, this one suits you better!.” He was sure of himself, he’s a farmer son after all. 

At the age of five Ivan was cruellest to himself most of all, often sneaking out into the back of the house in the middle of the night and punching the walls until his hands was numb against the pain. “Just in case I have to punch someone, it won’t hurt as much,” He griped to himself bitterly before soaking his dirty, bloody knuckles in a pan of whiskey.

Why Ivan did anything was against the logic of people, yet the only people he really knew was those in the village, and they chastised his deviant nature in front of him. His eldest sister averted her eyes away from him, preferring to talk to the swallows, his younger sister gave him a new bouquet of flower each day. And his father stares stoically at the boy each time he strolled through their front gate with a disappointed looking villager tagging along.

Only his mother spoke to him on equal terms, lovingly and dotingly.

“Why did you do that Ivan?”

“For the long term father.”

His father never beat him or raised his voice at the indifferent boy, only reigning in his emotions and tapped them away with his finger tips. Ivan understood that the faster his father tapped the table, the more furious he would be. The boy wanted his father to punch the table one day but instead he dragged on longer, his insolence allows his father’s anger tolerance to build, the villagers called his father a saint. Ivan nodded at work accomplished and muttered to himself one night, “Not bad at all.”

Then the war of 1939 broke out a week after his sixth birthday and his mother moved away to Ukraine after a shouting match with his father, the finality of his mother's goodbye as she held him in her embrace one last time was devastating for Ivan who usually did not cry. His father left one week after with a gun in his rucksack and his attire a stiff grey fabric that other men in the village wore, it was not warm to touch. His sisters wept bitterly.

The village whispered harshly when the saint went marching out. Ivan held his grandmother's hand tightly but his father did not look back. 

-

On one morning in 1946 as Ivan walked down that knoll something made him pause to throw his hands up in the air before swinging the palms into a bramble bush drawing lines of blood that bundled to the skin’s surface, before bursting from overflow and dripped across his palm, falling to the ground. Ivan placed his hands over the ruined forget-me-nots and allowed the droplets to splash onto wilting flower petals staining the bruised blue hues with ichor. “Beauty does take away the pain, doesn’t it?”, The flowers did not answer him, instead passed away silently because his blood was poisonous.

Who can stop Ivan? Certainly not himself.

-

Now he was older and his sisters were taken away to live with his aunty and uncle.

There was no gravestone for his deceased mother so her shrine was the makeshift flower bed in the back garden. No flowers bloomed on the dry earth and the snow prevented clovers from conquering the abandoned territory. There were no animals who would be foolish enough to migrate here for the winter, so the quiet was eerily enveloping the darkening hour. The bare evergreen crops that remained barren no matter the season became a source of fascination to the partridge who frequent surrounding woodlands. It was also peculiar enough for neighbours to stick their nose in and queried him about it in summer, they passed him in the market and might remark, “Your evergreens look terrible, have you tried checking their roots?”

To which he would reply gruffly, “No. Have you tried minded your own business?”

He was too isolated even for the quiet Finnish neighbourhood that rumours began about him being the ‘_ eye of the government _’. 

Each year he spends over two thousand dollars worth on imported flowers to remind his mother in heaven that she was still in his heart. 

He only remembers her in truncated flashes where her smile was carved into his mind, emerging like a corpse resurfacing through a veil of murky water. Her voice as mellow as the voice of a cello, when she recites her favourite poem ‘Ой стога, стога’ while cooking his favourite meal, the ghostly waft of oat porridge and cinnamon filled his nose suddenly. Then these were buried under loud bursts of thunder reverberating in his ears until it bled profusely. He scratched his chin absent-mindedly unsure of what to say before placing a bouquet of rosemary on the white ground, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck. 

Winter has limited his selection of floras and with it his limited patience.

He will be leaving for the United States in two days, hopefully never to return to this bleak ‘homeland’. The ballet troupe he travelled with disbanded two months ago leaving the boy in poor spirit and spiteful of his predicament. Perhaps the American companies will receive the ballet prodigy with open arms despite his Slavic background. The man he called his father had told him to leave Finland when he had the chance, yet he feared the scarred soldier as the man grabbed his arm forcefully to drag him away from the house he grew up in. He didn’t recognize his father until it was too late. On the month following VE day, his ‘father’ left him for England while he remained under the custody of his grandmother.

Before the man turned away permanently he spoke one name, “Charles Fitzgerald Jones”.


	2. ACT I Chapter 1. Le Réveil de Flore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you pour out your love for a person, those rich feelings are like sedatives. Stellating from the pith of your beings, they are copious honey so warm and strong to taste. It’s running wild, scaturient on lower lids as if tears are replaced by this wholesome feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Le Réveil de Flore 'The Awakening of Flora'- First presented by the Imperial Ballet at Peterhof Palace on 6 August 1894.
> 
> I do ballet but at an elementary level so my terminology is whacky and I have only been to New York once.
> 
> I also do not play a cello.  
Please fix my mistakes if there is any, thanks! And thank you for reading!
> 
> There will be several acts set out like a ballet composition, the summary when put together is the direct written words of Ivan.
> 
> The chapter summaries will reveal the truth.

_New York December 1960_ -

Hungarian Dance no. 5 by Brahms. Overplayed but who would ever play it on a cello except for Alfred, the dunce managed to make the light-hearted song depressing as he drew the bow agonizingly slow across the A string, eyes closed in a silent prayer he murmured under his breath as the last note was played.

Ivan loved every moment he spent observing the man he was infatuated with, they were in love with each other as the moon and the earth was in love, or as the butterfly and the flower, and he was convinced that he will have the courage to propose to Alfred by the end of this year. Ivan scoffs in his head at the thought, as if they can marry in their lifetime the Soviet Union will have to fall for them to wed.

“Прекрасный!” Ivan clapped deliberately at the end of the one man show he had the pleasure of watching every night as Alfred practices for his performance, the worn ‘The Great Gatsby’ novel Ivan was flitting through lay discarded dismally on an empty seat.

“Does that mean beautiful?” Alfred queried with a knowing smirk, his deft fingers placing away the cello without him glancing away from Ivan’s direction.

“Mhm, you’re catching up quickly!”

“That’s because you keep calling me that!”

“It is the truth!” It was hard to describe their relationship and it was harder to describe it as a wholly healthy one when it was more of an obsession on Ivan’s side, he was captivated by Alfred in everything that the other man did. From the way he swayed to the music he played, to his graceful gait as he bowed in front of the audience after a successful show, Ivan wasn’t sure who was the dancer any more.

Alfred has changed severely since Ivan first met him seven years ago, his golden hair was combed back routinely in comparison to the old unkempt cut, and his attire now only consists of a dark grey suit combination paired to an outrageously patterned tie. Alfred’s style may have gotten uglier but the boyish face of his has morphed into fairytale handsomeness, eyes free from crow feet because he never learnt to smile wider than a smirk and that impassioned gaze could capture anyone’s attention. It certainly captured Ivan.

Alfred didn’t like small talk and was repulsed by human touch, he would lean away from the breathlessness of women who were sidling up to the famous artist after shows with their enormous bouquets, their hands brushing not so subtly against his jacket or reaching out to grasp Alfred’s hesitant fingers. Yet Ivan was convinced this was only a public act. In the confines of their private domain Alfred was the one to take the lead in waltz and holding Ivan’s hand with the softest touch, that rumbling chuckle of his was reserved for Ivan alone.

They never kiss.

Those blue eyes flashed each time he laughed with or at Ivan, his hands flicked gracefully as Alfred took another bow and clicked shut the cello case, the heavy curtain waved in flourish as Alfred walked past, a ghostly whispering of fabric against wooden floor.

“When is your next performance?” Alfred spoke lightly, surprising Ivan as himself was usually the one to invite Alfred, usually the American man would never ask anything of anyone. As if he was scared of owing them a debt that no one has thought to demand, Ivan smoothed away his features and skipped a beat before answering.

“Not until next week. Why?”

“I would like to attend...if you will give me backstage pass”

“Hmm... What will I get for that?” Ivan took this as a sign of developments in their relationship, teasing the line of formality. “A bouquet of flowers and dinner on me?”

No kiss, not even an embrace. Huh.

“Of course. Anything for you Alfie.” Ivan sighed inwardly as he collected the book, choosing to stand near the light switch in lieu of glaring at Alfred for his obliviousness, he never seemed to be able to budge beyond the first movement when it comes to Alfred. It gets more awkward when they interacted in front of Ivan’s Hungarian dance partner, Elizabeth, or Alfred’s conductor, Roderick, who happened to be Elizabeth’s long term boyfriend.

Elizabeth urged, rather, nagged him to ask Alfred out but so far his dignity prevented him from doing anything that Alfred did not initiate. Roderick did not care about anyone or anything.

_God this day is long_, Ivan thought to himself as a final click signalled that Alfred finished packing away his music sheets. In front of an empty podium there were ghosts only Ivan could see, there was a headless lady who always smiled at him with her hand movements and some other ghost jeered at him for being unable to get a man to fall in love with him. If only those floaty bastards knew the kind of man Alfred was; if Ivan was a stormy turmoil of tragedy and anguish then Alfred was a man to hoist sail and set into that storm confidently, there was no regard for life or death because Alfred simply did not care about things he couldn’t control.

He lived in the moment, he is the moment.

Ivan shook his head and the ghost faded into the fragments of his imagination and Alfred clapped his shoulder soundly before murmuring, “Would you like me to walk you back to your apartment?”

“Really Alfred?” Ivan sighed but nonetheless took Alfred’s outstretched arm to be taken home.

America was a novel wonder in his eyes, and he never tired from looking at the sun bleeding from behind elongated buildings, glinting windows shone like gems. Unlike the strict, low-lying structure of the architecture in his homeland, here were openly rounded especially inside the dance theatre, a work flowing walls and tower skyscrapers. No face of stone was left unembellished, even mono-colour painted walls glistened under the golden light from the chandeliers.

A poster erupting in blues and greens, swirls of red and yellow punctuated by a rendition of famous actresses was engraved on the main pavilion, here a scene of dancers was a common sight. A steady stream of performers and audiences walked on the carpet paths by themselves or in groups, silk scarves ranging from faded to the most vivid shades billowed across the women’s shoulders as they walked, many of them boast of golden earrings finished with gems that tinkled mellow tunes. The men were dressed more simply but their gleaming gold watches told another story.

Roderick walked past him as they crossed the ticketing booth and Elizabeth, who was dragging the man away from an albino jazz dancer, winked at Ivan tilting her head in the direction of Alfred.

“Goodnight Elizabeth, Roderick!”

"Evening Alfred, Ivan!"

Ivan would have never thought it was possible for him to be among these class of people, and in all honesty he was at the bottom of the elitists, but he mired gladly in adequate wealthy and rich acquaintances do not hurt. Yet he lost his Swiss watch while gambling against a Swedish violinist and lost at least a grand when he played poker against a Finnish Tango singer.

Being ‘rich’ got to his head sometimes.

New York nearing the holiday season remains busy at night, but its people strode as fast as they could past the two men eager to escape the scathing cold. Cigarettes burned in a few dark corners alerting Ivan of the life behind shadows the smoke ever prominent against chilly breeze carried from the north, he realized that could have been him if he could not dance.

Alfred had not spoken since they exited the theatre.

“I am doing a solo performance in two weeks from now….” Alfred trailed off, looking away while a possible blush climb to his cheek, “It would be nice if you could...um, come along…”

It was strange to see Alfred’s hesitation, his gelled hair falling from their bonds brushing over his hooded, red rimmed eyes and his hands were calloused where it brushed against Ivan’s fingers. Alfred looked tired now and Ivan revelled in knowing that Alfred had a human side.

“I can’t wait to hear it!”, Ivan took his arm and dragged him to one of the metal ramparts facing out towards the river, the light of stars and setting sun competed with each other, rays of light bouncing upon the lake creating a cascade of emerald. Alfred sighed at the sight staring at Ivan’s face and squeezed Ivan’s hands tighter. He remembered in their younger years when they would walk along the same path, exchanging ridiculous stories each one becoming more absurd as they compete to make each other cry with laughter, the walks would end up with them holding their stomach struggling to laugh no more. Eventually growing up made them choose their own paths, and they no longer had time to waste or to appreciate the jovial moments of childhood.

Perhaps the flowers will awaken once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> should I bring the Swedish violinist and Finnish Tango singer back??


	3. ACT I Chapter 2 Napoli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You want to share more because there was ample to give. Such is a love to a dancer like with their passion dressed in the purest light. Graceful fingers stretched to tap out beats of heart or the song that their heart was given to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was eating a lot of jalapeños when I wrote this so mistakes are expected :D  
Napoli has a very interesting storyline.

One, two, three, four, five, six...six, five, four, three, two, one - The show began and his heart soared in anticipation, there was nothing to chain him when he took that first leap, twirling so fast as the air whipped his hair against his half closed eyelids. Ivan trusted his instincts to carry his feet to the rhythm of the music, this recital was over played, over practiced, so he trusted himself. His loose costume of an Italian fisherman,  _ Gennario _ , bunched tightly at his waist but flowing upwards to the sleeve blossomed around him like a white lily, soft and wind strewned. 

The storm was coming and the loud cello rumbled lowly, this was when _Teresina_ supposedly drowned, overhead the lightly crew performed their magic, lulling his narrative world into a tempest of pooling waters and dazzling flashes of lightning.

Where has the time gone? He saw the audience in blurs shifting as if they too were dancing and he was their audience. One moment they were there and another replaced by the sweetly smiling but determined face of his dance partner and the next moment he was caught in the gaze of a curly haired teenager who looked at him in mouth-gaping awe, he was exalted by the audience and the next _pas d’élévation_ was even higher than the last. 

_ Your jumps should be more consistent _ ! The director’s voice griped in his head irritatingly

Italian embroidered skirt gambolled against his legs as the background dancers completed their  _ Chaînés _ signalling the end of the third movement, the audiences thoroughly transport to the blue port of an Italian fishing village whispered something to each other so softly, wary of breaking the spell.

Their enraptured gaze turned away from him for one second to Elizabeth whose auburn hair glittered as she balanced on pointe and their attention returned as he moved behind Elizabeth to complete the next and final movement. 

Their marriage was grand, flower confetti scattered in the background where no one danced and the dancers were lithe.

The violins slowed to a crawl, forging a new atmosphere to the story and then the rain fell, pattering softly on the roof of the theatre as the last act came to a close. Ivan smiled as he bowed deeply, not an arrogant smile like Alfred‘s but full of joy, passion radiating from a job well done.

Elizabeth stood a foot away from him, the hands joined in mutual appreciation and trust as dance partners. Their third show this week, a one-day break, and they will have to continue with the booked out performances. 

Ivan caught Alfred’s glance, only then did Alfred throw the rose at his feet. The single rose bled out as the spotlight poured onto the petals, quick to disperse the red hues- the audiences do not bring roses to throw any more, the practice was slowly dying as Ivan observed but somewhere in this world there always will be romantics like Alfred who rewarded the dancers in his nostalgic ways. 

As the curtain descended, Ivan turned to Elizabeth to congratulate her on the successful performance but found himself surrounded by his group of performers, his family as they clapped his back and handed him a towel.

“That was brilliant Ivan!“

“Well done, brother!“

“No, Elizabeth was amazing!”

“I wholeheartedly agree with that…”

“And everyone else was also perfect!”

“Oh don’t be so modest Ivan.”

The chattering of congratulations grew into a clamour and the dancers began removing their sweaty costumes and unwrapping the ribbons, yet as soon as the slow clap of the director reverberate sharply above the noise they slowly fade away into the background. 

The formidably eyebrowed man walking up to him brought a respectful silence in his wake “_Très bien fait_.“

His comment puzzled Ivan temporarily until he realised that it was in French, “_Vielen Dank, Herr Kirkland_”, He replied in German just to piss off the stiff British. The Brit bristled and straightened sharper than his pressed tie, his eyebrows twitching furiously.

Ivan didn’t mind the man, in fact they’ve sat down for a drink now and then in the holiday season but Arthur acted like he was Alfred’s father, always wary of Ivan when he witness them within a metre of each other. Ivan found it amusing so he always cooed at Alfred in Russian when they are in the same vicinity.

A retired dancer now Ivan’s teacher, Francis Bonnefoy, rolled his eyes as he pecked the cheek of the scowling director and pulled him away from the moving technical crew wheeling a prop Italian cottage, “Come now Arthur, stop being so disagreeable!” 

Elizabeth swivelled from the hanger to jabbed Ivan’s side and sneered, “You need to change out soon, you’ve been stock still since Artie came around~”

Ivan only understood what she was implying five seconds later, several horrified expressions materialised on his face, “W-what the hell!? Elizabethhhh, stop teasing me!”

The woman pushed him away and he tumbled through the changing room, picking up his belongings along the way and changing it away in the bathrooms. The atmosphere was thick with odour and perfume, an amalgam of bittersweet or sour- Ivan cringed at the thought spritzing himself thoroughly with cologne before stepping out of the cubicle.

Not before long he spotted Alfred by the hallway, decked in his everyday’s best a handkerchief falling carefully out of his pocket as if strategically placed their to compensate for the lack of untidiness. 

“Evening Vanya.”

“Stop that,” Ivan tutted and followed Alfred’s heels.

Alfred took his arms by the elbow and pulled him away to a private theatre that Alfred reserved for practice, it was another practice night for Alfred and Ivan was content to wait for him to finish even if it meant waiting well past midnight. 

There were two switches to turn on the light, one that was lined with brass spurting brown stains where the hands of thousands wore away the polished surface, their imprints on the history of this theatre. Alfred however had one reserved for himself, an impractical move but Alfred managed to convince Arthur to install one just for him.

“What are you practicing today?” Ivan called out, ducking under the wooden frame that his head did not touch, it was a habit- fearing something almost hitting him so he shied away from it. 

Alfred did not flinch and walked straight through confidently,”Perhaps  _ Papirosn.” _

“Why do you always play songs that do not fit for Cellos?”

“On the contrary, it sounds nice- this is not an ill-fitting song for a cello. Tango-lly, sad and yes- Timo asked me to play.”

“Oh, the fool that had me dancing on my debts?”

“I’m not going to start that argument again.”

Alfred took out his cello, slamming the case harder than Ivan expected, perhaps Ivan should be more careful next time, what will he going to do with himself when boredom becomes persistent. 

No more gambling.

No more.

Ivan repeated it to himself at least a dozen times before draping himself over the plush seats propped at the front. The bow glimmered twice in Alfred’s hands as he raised it and the words tumbled out in front of the music until he could no longer differentiate the drawl of the cello to his mother’s voice.

_ Mayn tate in milkhome hot farloyrn zayne hent,  _

_ mayn mame hot di tsores mer oyshaltn nisht gekent.  _

_ Yung in keyver zi getribn, bin ikh oyf der velt farblibn,  _

_ ungliklekh un elnt vi a shteyn. _

It was prophetic that’s what the song was, sung by a woman who was driven to death and heard by his father who lost his leg during the war, or the sisters who he knows not if they are dead or alive. Ivan’s mother always sang it in Russian, sometimes her words jumbled the meaning or maybe it was her trying to hide the truth from Ivan, their disjointed family with gouges deeper than the Grand Canyon and scars more prominent than the ridges of the Alps. Ivan did not know how to react since Alfred chose this song, perhaps with a motive only his mind could comprehend. 

“Your mother. You never spoke about her in the years we know each other,” Alfred implied the heavy question and Ivan weighed his answers carefully.

“Would you like to meet my parents?” Ivan stared pointedly, refusing to be intimidated by Alfred.

“It would be polite of me-” Alfred began without breaking away his instrument. 

“They are deceased.”

“Oh.”

What did Alfred expected him to say to that.

“Oh I’m so sorry.”

“_You_ didn’t kill them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Papirosn was a Yiddish song written in 1920 by Herman Yablokoff  
The translation:  
My father lost his hands in the war  
My mother couldn't bear her troubles anymore  
And was driven to her grave at a young age  
I was left on this earth unhappy and alone like a stone
> 
> Source: http://www.songsofmypeople.com/papirosn.html


	4. ACT I Chapter 3 Romeo and Juliet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The precious words their lover murmured just as a melody taunt an oscillation of harmonics. When a dancer love, they give it their soul, they sacrificed their feet to be chained to trivial things like shoes, and their kissed blown through air in-front of a spotlight. That is their cue to for their lover to rejoice in the happiness of their world. Of life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated version because the feeling is different after I've finally let go of someone, love hurts.  
Price of bread is so hard to find!! - http://www.thepeoplehistory.com/50sfood.html  
I need to find songs that fit this fic!!

_ New York March 1960 _

A small sliver of golden light flushed with coral hues raised itself slowly through corrugated curtains descending upon Ivan’s bedroom, a blackbird perched upon a roof sang its mournful au bade as the wind flitted through a small crack in the scrubbed window panels, it was almost nostalgic, and he didn’t even have a memorable past, it made him giddy to be a part of such a beautiful world, he was positive that luck will come around to smack him today.

It was 7:50am when Ivan carefully placed all the books he needed into his bag, and bidding his salmon clad neighbour a good day on his way to the train station, he rushed to catch the next train to the University. 

His street was fairly quiet as it had been when he first moved into the area, situated slightly away from the city centre it was a retreat of sorts for his constantly busy mind. The flats were hidden by tall hedges and flower that bloomed too wildly during the summer, the stone work sparkled at anytime of the day, a performance of anyone to watch.

Alfred wasn’t too kind to him when they first met, but it was in the corner bakery that brought a rush of memory to Ivan’s mind. A winter in 1956 was so mesmerizing for a person like Ivan, uncovering himself from the protective comforts of Finland. The ship was loud and the people just as rowdy, he stayed for a few days in a hotel and then with his cousins who contacted him before he left, on the third week he was looking for residency in a smaller neighbourhood where everyone knew each other, and he felt so foreign amongst them. The landlord was happy to have tenants but perhaps was too wary of his Russian sounding name that he left as soon Ivan signed the contract. The fridge was bare with only one slice of cake left by the landlord as a welcome present and Ivan sparsely furnished the singular table with a picture of his siblings before leaving to buy something, anything that would make this unwelcoming country feel like home. Not that he ever had a home. The homes he read about in stories, where his return would be welcomed by all the family members- but now he was alone again in an unfamiliar territory, the buildings were too tall, the bricks too dark and the lack of tree sapped away his energy incessantly. 

Perplexed by its complexity and hectic pace, he slipped into the bakery that belonged in a French town. A mellow light lit the bakery from the inside and Ivan was entranced by the saccharine smell, a soft crunch as a bread loaf was deftly folded into the brown wrapping, the smiles of the workers were tepid from a long day’s work and much of their murmurs were in French. 

Ivan in his tiredness forgot to look at the price when he ordered too much bread and as soon as the workers said ‘thirty-two cents’, Ivan backtracked immediately forgetting how to speak english, twiddling the twenty-five cents he designated for bread. The worker’s smile never faltered but at that moment Ivan felt like it was sneering at him, he quickly murmured sorry in Finnish several times and asked for one less loaf in broken english.

Alfred had been standing behind him, scoffing loudly before throwing the extra seven cents onto the counter.

_ ‘Don’t forget to count next time.’ _ Alfred told him this in an annoyed tone but Ivan ignored that as it was the first nice thing a stranger had done for him since setting foot on this country. 

_ ‘Thank you!’ _ Ivan could see Alfred restraining a smile, resorting to wave him off.

As Ivan clutched the bag of bread close to his heart he would never expect to see Alfred in the theatre as he went there in the next week to look for work. From that day on, Ivan began seeing him everywhere. The soft glinting blond as he stood in the theatre’s hall, eyes watching him carefully from behind frames, the dancers’ remarks that the local cellist’s was going to a lot of their performances. 

But it was a long time before they actually spoke.

A honk broke Ivan’s thought as he almost crossed the road without looking, the driver of the cab gestured crazily at the road, back to him and to the road again, Ivan silently begged for forgiveness and returned to the footpath. 

Along the way Ivan imagined that the road was the vast river which followed the path his mother might have taken him through, overcoming her plight to reach the secret glade, he could hear the trickling of the river as it percolate through the rocks as he imagined himself in her arms at age two as she pointed out sly foxes who haunted the undergrowth, his heart beating faster at the visualization of the small daisy in his equally small hand and somehow it felt better than holding a purse full of money.

“There you are,” Alfred shook his hands and clapped his shoulder,” You’re not late for once.”

“Don’t fool me Alfred, why are you so early today?”

“Alright you got me.” 

Alfred took something out of his pockets and the crinkle of paper had Ivan eager to see what was underneath.

“Do you smell it?”

“No blocked nose, hay fever.”

Alfred placed the package against Ivan’s cheek and it was warm, radiatingly so- but he was able to catch a whiff of sweet maple in between sniffles. 

“Pancakes!” 

As Ivan and Alfred walked to the library they took in the warm breezy summer’s day, the wind shaking the leaves of the jacaranda tree in the middle of the school’s courtyard, heavily laden with bell like flowers growing in exuberant clusters, the violet and blue splotches illuminated by the sun’s radiance casting intricate shadows on the old brickworks. Many students were sitting on the long benches under an oak tree with an assortment of books on their lap, flicking in disinterest or reverently absorbing the texts. Others were sitting on a plain of lush grass, leaning against a wrinkled gray tree trunk and one or two students held flashy ukulele strumming disjointed verses that fluxed into the sound of chatters.

Despite the calmness of the morning, Ivan couldn’t look Alfred in the eye let alone ask him for a piece of pancake because his stomach was rumbling too loudly.

“Ivan, would you like to come to my house for dinner sometimes?” Alfred spoke up simultaneously as Ivan ask, “Can I have a piece of pancake?”

They burst out laughing, sending the squirrels by the path scrambling up a tree.

“So?”

“So can I have some and then I’ll give you my answer.”

“Pfft, alright!” Alfred tore at the paper box mindlessly, before passing it onto Ivan.

“You’re horrible you know, absolutely horrible.”

“I’m influenced by those I hang around….”

Ivan’s eyes narrowed deciphering the smart comment and realizing that it was a jab at him, he smacked Alfred’s side. 

How different was the Alfred that stepped away from the spotlight, his fingers clumsy on everything except on an instrument and a comb. He was wearing a dress shirt and slacks but the sleeves were neatly folded to show off the thick leather watch boldly engraved with ‘AMERICA’ on its face, a not so generic patriotic boy.

Looking into Alfred’s face, all his tragedies faded away- they were worth unto him as the grains of sand are on this earth, so bountiful but weak against him. 

“Thank you,” Ivan spoke softly hoping that Alfred did not hear him.

Even if Alfred did then he chose to ignore Ivan, gorging on the pancakes in his hand like a starving man. 

The university loomed ahead, the cool windows lining mildew washed walls, all of them closed but they allowed some sun to creep into the echoing halls and silent classrooms. Further in front before the entrance was a pair of lion gargoyles, making themselves at home by caressing the orbs in front of them even as mildew grow on them, they would not move. Ivan pondered how amusing it would be if he walked to school one day and they would pounce to eat him.

‘What the hell Ivan’ And as always he would smack himself for having such strange thoughts. 

The girls were smiling and their dark hair whipped in the opposite direction to their charge, a vision of entropy in these already chaotic times.

Alfred winked at them smoothly, even his dishevelled appearance could not repel them to his charms, Ivan ignored them especially the one girl who waved at him. 

“Ivan! Don’t ignore the poor lass!”

“Why do I have to say hello?”

“Because it’s courtesy, and they’ll think that you’re weird-”

“Oh so this what it’s about, me being the foreign one again?”

Alfred stopped in his tracks finally realising his lack of tact, Ivan couldn’t help scoffing when Alfred cursed loudly and ran back to trail after him. 

“Look, I’m sorry but you can try to be nicer!”

“Yeah, yeah….”

“Morning Roderich.” Ivan nodded to the man who was still in tie despite the building heat.

“Have you seen Elizabeth?” Roderick looked back after a while and Ivan shook his head.

“Look at that, you’re nicer with the men than the girls…”, Alfred tried to spark a conversation but Ivan quickly cut him off before he mentions anything else stupid.

“Roderich is my friend.”

They passed under the tall double doors, the formidable design was etched with curling vines and olive branches chipped at the edges held accountable by time. This was where they usually part way to head off to class but Ivan turned around to face Alfred, his eyes avoiding the excitable American as he took Alfred’s hands in his own. 

It has been four years since Ivan fell in love with his enigmatic American, ever since the scene at the bakery Ivan feel so deeply in love with him, slowly but surely. How strange is it that he still crave Alfred’s touches even though he never had the courage to look into his eyes.

And at this moment Ivan had completely forgotten the sound of Alfred’s voice and all those useless compliments that Ivan thought he never deserved anyway, yet that unhinged, carefree smile was the key out of the prison that Ivan placed himself in. 

The American spring was filled with happiness, so surreal amongst the sorrows of every individual’s life. Ice-creams, pancakes, smiles and photographs dusted over by the stars but not once did they walk out into the night scene and gaze at the real stars. The light of New York was too bright, a manifestation of a dream. They were their own stars, he was young and reaching for the same ambitions; to love and be loved in return. All the colours of America, its golden sky, smiling people they gave him hope for a better time. So Ivan took a deep breath and ground out the sentence.

“Alfred I’m not sure you know…” 

“Know what?” Alfred had the audacity to ask that and Ivan resisted the urgent desire to smack him.

“Know that I-”, This is it, Ivan had to do it now.

Alfred looked away distracted by a pigeon on its way to class.

“Shit Alfred, you dense cabbage…. I like you...no, I might be in love with you…”

Ivan felt the floor falling away from him, his world spinning of the colours of love and romance, the same feeling he was infused with when he danced to  _ Romeo and Juliet.  _

‘Run away Ivan!’ A sharp voice screeched in his head and that was what he did, but not before the familiar voice of a certain annoying Polish man reached him.

“Hah! Homosexuals!”


End file.
